


The Delicate Noise

by cuttooth, fatal_drum



Series: there's a price that I pay for my mission [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, D/s, Dominant Martin Blackwood, Jon still needs a snickers, M/M, Oral Sex, Praise Kink, Strap-Ons, Submissive Jonathan Sims, Trans Martin Blackwood, Under-negotiated Kink, Vaginal Sex, neither of them are great at this, with a surprising amount of comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-29 07:02:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21406126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuttooth/pseuds/cuttooth, https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatal_drum/pseuds/fatal_drum
Summary: Martin deals with the fallout from his last encounter with Jon and tries to bury himself in his Lonely existence. It won't happen again, he tells himself. Itcan'thappen again, no matter how much he wants it to.Weeks later, his resolve is put to the test.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood/Peter Lukas
Series: there's a price that I pay for my mission [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1543186
Comments: 46
Kudos: 389





	The Delicate Noise

After Jon leaves, Martin stays sat on the couch for a long while, staring at the door he’d left through. It all feels like a taunting dream, except he can feel the evidence of Jon’s visit in the slickness between his thighs, soaking into his pants. 

The worst part is, he’s fantasized about this before. Jon coming to him, soft and wanting. Kissing him, touching him, laying him bare with those watcher’s eyes. And afterwards, falling asleep with his face buried in Jon’s hair, feeling the warmth of his skin. Whispering his devotion into his ear. In the morning, he would finger Jon open, mouthing a trail down his back and between his cheeks, licking him until he pleaded for more. It’s a sweet fantasy, and a well-worn one. 

He never expected to have Jon for real. Neither did he imagine he would feel so cold afterward. He certainly never envisioned Jon forcing his way into his flat, compelling the ugly truth from his lips. In the end, Martin begged for him like a whore, and Jon treated him like one. 

Finally Martin gets up and walks to the kitchen to put on tea. He returns with a cup of chamomile and a damp rag to scrub at the stain on his sofa, the proof of his indiscretion. His ribs ache with each movement. Stupid, leaving on his binder, but he’d been so desperate, so unwilling to deny Jon when he was kneeling between his thighs with such a look of worship.

Of course, he realizes bitterly, Jon is a  _ disaster.  _ Martin can’t even summon the will to be properly angry with him. The shadows under his eyes had been so deep, his hair unkempt and his skin a sickly ashen color. Of course he would come to Martin. Martin’s the only one fool enough to let him in. 

He swallows a couple of painkillers and takes a hot shower, scrubbing Jon off his skin until the water runs cold. He can’t get the image of Jon’s face out of his mind, the sheer  _ need  _ in his expression. Sending Jon away is the best decision he could have made. 

Martin was always going to get hurt, no matter what he chose. This was just the choice that left him with memories to hold onto. 

He’s not sure it was worth it. 

* * *

The next morning, Martin realizes he has a problem. 

He promised Peter he wouldn’t see Jon. That he wouldn’t  _ talk  _ to him. Well, he’s certainly done a lot more than that, even if  _ don’t shag Jonathan Sims on your couch  _ hadn’t been among Peter’s demands. Thankfully Peter doesn’t seem quite as inclined to spying as Elias, but what if he just... _ knows?  _ From the cast of Martin’s shoulders, the guilty look on his face. Martin has barely been able to stop thinking about what happened. What if Peter can tell? He is, after all, an expert on loneliness. 

Martin considers the problem as he shaves and brushes his teeth. Someone might have seen Jon following him from the Institute, put two and two together...but why would they bother telling Peter? As far as Martin knows, he’s Peter’s only conduit to the rest of the Institute. 

He’s being paranoid, he decides. There’s nothing to worry about. Aside from the end of the world. And becoming an avatar of evil. And watching Jon gradually slide into perdition. 

All right, maybe Martin  _ does  _ have a lot to worry about, but he’s going to have to deal with it later, because if he spends any more time brooding into the mirror he’s going to be late, and then Peter will  _ know  _ something’s wrong. 

He just barely catches the tube to Chelsea, and hurries the rest of the way. He considers sneaking in through the back to decrease his chances of encountering Jon, but he’s not going to hide in his own workplace. Even if the idea of facing Jon fills him with a bone-deep dread. Even if he  _ wants  _ to see Jon, which is somehow worse. He’s beginning to see the appeal of a life without connections.

It’s almost a disappointment to find his office empty. At least as far as  _ his  _ eyes can tell; he still hasn’t learned how to detect Peter when he doesn’t want to be noticed. Perhaps if Martin spent more time in his patron’s realm, he could. But then, all Martin would get out of that is seeing more of Peter. He sighs and turns on his laptop, eager for distraction. 

Running the Magnus Institute is surprisingly dull work. There’s little in the administrative files that suggests it’s anything other than an academic institution. They still need to order printer paper and ink pens, though perhaps more CO2 fire extinguishers than is normal for anything other than a fire brigade. For all the lives it’s ruined, the Magnus Institute is...pretty boring. 

Peter appears around eleven thirty, chilling the air and wrapping himself around Martin like an overgrown cat.

“Morning,” Peter says into his ear, making him shiver. 

“Glad you’ve seen fit to show up,” Martin says curtly. 

Martin can feel Peter’s lips curl into a smile against his neck. 

“Why, Martin,” he says. “Did you miss me?”

“No, but this pile of forms did,” Martin says, pointing to the tall stack on the edge of his desk. 

“I’ll have to take them out to lunch. Though I did fancy a bit of dessert first.”

Peter’s hands skim down his chest and belly, palming his thighs. Martin brushes them away, moving to stand. Peter shoots him an amused look as Martin pushes him against the wall, dragging him down for a hard kiss. 

Peter is better at this than he has any right to be. His beard rasps against Martin’s face as the kiss deepens and Peter licks his way into his mouth. Martin reaches down to palm Peter’s cock through his trousers, giving it a good squeeze. He enjoys the way Peter’s breath hitches as he does it. 

Without breaking the kiss, Martin thumbs open the button on his trousers and unzips him. Peter’s not wearing anything beneath, so Martin immediately feels firm flesh beneath his fingers. He wraps him in a loose fist, rubbing his thumb just under the head as Peter hardens for him. 

“Oh, Martin,” Peter breathes. “You really did miss me.” 

And that’s more talking than Martin wants right now, so he does his best to render Peter speechless, stroking him firmly as he nips at his lower lip. His cock’s nice and thick, a good handful for Martin to distract himself with. He slides down onto his knees and mouths at the shaft, cupping his balls in one hand. Peter reaches down to stroke Martin’s hair as he works. 

Martin never got to do this to Jon. Never got to taste him, to hear him come apart without the distraction of his own pleasure. He was louder than Peter when Martin touched him, would probably be louder with Martin’s mouth on him. Martin feels heat flare between his legs at the thought. Jon was so  _ sensitive,  _ so eager to please him. He wonders how long it would take to make him beg. 

Peter’s fingers tighten in his hair, and he remembers where he is, forcing Jon out of his mind and focusing on Peter. On the way his skin is always a bit cooler than it should be. On the scent of salt that clings to him. On the way his thighs clench when Martin licks him just  _ there,  _ so Martin does it again, and again, then relaxes his throat to take Peter deeper, until his nose brushes against the coarse hair of his groin. He swallows just to hear Peter swear, before pulling back to massage the head with his lips, tasting salty precome. Above him, Peter throws his head back so hard Martin can hear it hit the wall. 

He lets Peter fuck his mouth, gripping his hips encouragingly. It’s easy to lose himself in Peter’s thrusts, in the fullness in his throat, in the struggle to breathe. He works his tongue as Peter fucks him, feels him shudder under his hands before finally coming with a low groan. Martin swallows, feeling more than a bit smug. He may not have control of his life, but he can at least control  _ this.  _

“Christ, Martin,” Peter says, a bit breathlessly. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but I like it.” 

Peter’s phone buzzes, and he reaches for it, not even bothering to cover himself. He swears. 

“Looks like I’m meeting the donors,” Peter says. 

“When?” Martin asks, wiping his mouth discreetly. 

“Ten minutes ago, apparently.” Peter tucks himself away, then fishes out his wallet to retrieve a matte black credit card. “Seems I'll need a raincheck on lunch. Buy yourself something nice, on me?”

Martin has a feeling he could buy the whole restaurant with a card like that. He takes it with numb fingers as Peter leans down to brush a kiss against his forehead. 

“Be seeing you, sweetheart.”

Then he’s gone as quickly as he arrived, leaving Martin alone with his thoughts. For a moment, he swears he can see the fog around him.

* * *

Martin stays wary for a few days, but Peter doesn’t act any differently, so he reckons he’s gotten away with it. Jon doesn’t try to find him, either, which is...a relief, he supposes, though he’s not sure how he actually feels about it. Nights he spends home alone—which is to say, every night he doesn’t sleep in his office—he’s on edge for knocks at his door. He wonders, endlessly, what he’d do if Jon came back. 

Three weeks later, he finds out. 

Martin jumps when the buzzer for downstairs sounds, loud and harsh. It’s probably telling of how long it’s been since anyone came to see him. Anyone who didn’t just spook their way past the front door, anyway. 

The silence seems louder after the buzzer’s screech, and Martin sits there, debating whether to answer it. It’s silly, of course. Until a few months ago it wouldn’t even have been a question. If someone was buzzing his door it had to be for a reason, and even if it was a salesperson or a religious organization, it didn’t do any harm to be polite. Now, though, the biggest part of him wants to just ignore it, wait for whoever it is to go away. 

“Suppose that’s the Lonely for you,” he mutters to himself, as if making light of it would make it any less of a creeping horror. 

The buzzer sounds again, for longer this time, as if the person is  _ really insistent _ that they need to talk to him. Martin sighs. Fine. Hopefully it is just a Jehovah’s Witness or a magazine subscription seller. He gets up, and presses the button for the intercom. 

“Hello?”

_ “Martin…” _

His pulse races as the familiar voice scrapes through him. Jon sounds no better than he did last time, still harsh and exhausted. “I’m sorry to turn up like this. I just—I didn’t know where else to go.”

Silence stretches out, broken only by the faint crackle of the intercom, Jon’s uneven breathing. Martin’s heart is hammering in his chest, thinking of what happened last time Jon was here. He feels sick at the memory of the statement, his fear being  _ drawn  _ out of him for Jon to feed on. Ashamed and excited at the memory of what came afterwards. He can’t do this again. 

_ “Please,” _ Jon says urgently, and Martin folds. He sighs, and unlocks the front door.

“Come up,” he says, and goes to put on the kettle. It’s a reflex, a pointless distraction, but it makes him feel better.  _ It’s fine, _ he thinks,  _ He doesn’t sound irrational, just...desperate. He wouldn’t do... _ that _ again. Not after last time.  _ The rationalization doesn’t stop him from flinching when he hears a sharp knock on his door. 

Jon pushes past him the moment he opens the door, pacing around the small space with all the tense energy of a caged animal. He somehow manages to look worse than he did before, his cheeks pale and hollow, with bruise-deep shadows under his eyes. He looks at Martin, licks his lips nervously, then looks away. Martin watches him with a building sense of apprehension. 

“Thank you,” Jon finally says, eyes darting quickly away from Martin’s. “For letting me in, I mean. I wouldn’t have blamed you if...well. I wouldn’t have blamed you.”

Jon manages to look vulnerable despite the predatory stalking around Martin’s sitting room. Martin finds himself at a loss, torn between comforting Jon and demanding an explanation. 

“I’m making tea if you want any,” Martin says, not waiting for a reply before ducking into the small kitchen. 

He busies himself fetching mugs and tea bags, stirring in the milk and two spoons of sugar in Jon’s; he looks like he could use it. It gives him a few moments to compose himself, and by the time he turns around again his hands are hardly trembling. Jon is perched on the edge of the sofa, looking as if he might bolt at any second. 

“Thank you,” he says, taking the mug of tea Martin offers him. His hands shake, and he has to visibly brace himself to avoid spilling the hot liquid. He takes a drink and gives a small, nostalgic smile, almost looking like his old self for a moment. Almost. “You always make the best tea. I don’t know how.”

“I actually wait for the water to boil.” 

Jon gives a huff of laughter, 

“I suppose I can be a bit impatient with it.” He darts a shy glance at Martin, then looks down at his mug. “H-how are you, Martin?”

“How am  _ I?” _ Martin is incredulous. “I’m not the one who showed up at your door like a stray cat, unannounced and uninvited, after I specifically  _ told  _ you not to come. You’d better have a good reason.”

“I, ah, just wanted to make sure first that everything was...okay? No—no  _ dreams,  _ or anything?”

“No dreams,” Martin confirms. “I suppose I still belong to Beholding enough for that small mercy. And no... _ you _ popping up in my peripheral vision staring at me, either.”

“What?” Jon looks baffled. 

Martin sighs. “The woman who came to...complain about you? She—she’s been seeing you. While she’s awake. Watching her.” 

All the blood drains from Jon’s face, and his expression twists into something between horror and disgust. He clutches his face with one hand, his elbow propped on his knee.

“God…” he whispers, ragged. “I didn’t know. I swear, Martin, I didn’t. God, I almost—I almost did it again, today. That’s why I had to see you, I—I couldn’t…” He’s trembling violently now, and Martin takes the tea out of his hand before it spills, placing both mugs on the coffee table. His heart is pounding again, fear and pity mingling strangely in his chest as Jon falls apart in front of him. Martin takes a deep breath and steadies himself. This worked well enough last time.

“Jon,” he directs firmly. “Calm down. Tell me what happened.” Jon doesn’t calm, precisely, but the words seem to be enough to snap him out of his spiral. He pulls himself together and tells Martin, the story a bit disjointed and rambling, but clear enough for Martin to get the picture. 

“I’d been reading some old statements, trying to curb the hunger. But I got restless, and started craving a cigarette.” Jon shoots him an apologetic look. “I know you hate it, but—well, it’s not like I’m likely to die of lung cancer.”

Martin resists the urge to lecture him, keeping his face carefully blank as Jon continues, “I was standing outside when a man walked by. He stopped for a moment to answer his mobile, but then he kept walking, and I realized he’d dropped his wallet. I tried to call for him, but he was walking too fast, so I tried to catch up.” 

Jon’s breathing grows faster, his eyes distant as he remembers. “I followed him for several streets, dodging through crowds and walking down narrow alleys until I found him. When I reached out to touch his shoulder, he whirled around, and I realized it was never about the wallet: he had a story for me, one only I could understand and appreciate. It felt like we were meant to meet. All I had to do was ask.”

“Jon—”

“He was scared. I could smell it on him. Ordinarily, I don’t think I would have minded, but—then I remembered you. How I hurt you,  _ frightened  _ you, and it made me so sick inside. I couldn’t do it. I  _ wanted _ to, so badly it was like a physical  _ need, _ but I—I  _ couldn’t. _ I got away from there as fast as I could, and I...came here.”

The story draws to a close, and Martin is shaken. What’s he supposed to do with this revelation, that thinking of  _ him _ was the only thing that prevented Jon taking another victim? It’s too much responsibility; he can’t be Jon’s tether to humanity. The only good in it, he supposes, is that Jon hurting someone he knows was enough to make him realize the harm he’s been doing. 

Jon is looking at him, stricken. The dark eyes that Martin’s always found so beautiful are red-rimmed and shining with tears. He gives a little hitching sob, and then slides off the sofa and onto his knees. He falls forward against Martin, clutching at him frantically, his fingers digging painfully into Martin’s calves. 

“I’m sorry, Martin,” he cries, “I’m so, so sorry…”

“Shh, Jon, it’s okay, it’s okay.” Martin soothes him mindlessly, petting hands over his back, his arms, overwhelmed by the tide of Jon’s grief and despair. He pulls Jon’s head into his lap and lets him cry, curled into a tight ball of misery while Martin strokes his hair and murmurs nonsense to him. It’s not okay, of course, it’s about as far from okay as things can get. But that isn’t what Jon needs to hear right now, so Martin reassures him, and wonders what the hell he’s going to do.

Eventually, the flood of pain dies away, and Jon goes quiet. He’s still on his knees, trembling like a wounded animal, and Martin can’t help thinking of the last time Jon was here, how they were in this exact same position, and what it led to. Not a helpful thought while Jon is a shaking mess on his floor, but it sends an involuntary rush of heat through Martin. Jon’s hair is soft under his fingers, his cheek warm against Martin’s thigh. 

He had been so desperate last time, and yet so tender, opening Martin up as if he was a gift. It felt amazing, even though it wasn’t real. Martin’s thought a lot about it in the past three weeks, and it seems obvious that the emotional bleed from his statement was what drove Jon’s need, that it wasn’t only Martin’s fear he’d shared. It wasn’t  _ Jon,  _ not really, for all his whispered desire, his hungry reverence. Martin pushes the memories away fiercely; it’s not fair to either of them to dwell on it. 

Jon needs his help, right now. And maybe Martin doesn’t owe him anything, maybe he’s a fool who’s only giving Jon the opportunity to hurt him again, unintentional as it might be. But he knows he can’t turn Jon away.

“Jon,” he says, carefully. “Why did you come here?” He’s painfully aware of the echoes of their previous conversation, after Jon had devoured him whole. Jon looks up at him, his face tear streaked. He looks ashamed, guilty.

“I’m so hungry, Martin,” he says. “I, I can’t take it, I don’t know what to do. It’s all I can think about, wanting to  _ know,  _ to consume. I don’t want to hurt people, but what if—?” He shudders, then corrects himself. “I’m afraid I can’t stop.”

“Then why come to me?”

“I don’t  _ know!”  _ Jon snaps, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “I just—I need—” 

Martin’s hand tenses unconsciously, gripping the hair above the nape of Jon’s neck. “Think carefully before you speak.”

The effect is instantaneous: Jon whimpers low in his throat and sags against him, breathing hard and clinging on for dear life. “I—you’re the only thing that’s ever stopped me. The only thing that gets through past the hunger. If I’m not thinking of it, I’m thinking of you, and it’s just as painful.” Jon says these last words with his face buried in Martin’s lap, lips brushing his thighs in a way that sends a shiver up his spine. Martin can’t bring himself to shove him away. 

“What—what do you mean?”

Jon looks up at him with damp eyes, teeth sunk deep into his lip. 

“I think about you all the time,” he says softly. “About your face, your voice, your hair. About how your hands are so strong, but I’ve seen you hold small things, fragile things, so carefully—like that time a moth got trapped in the archives, and you picked it up so gently, and took it outside. I think about how your eyes aren’t really green or blue, but shades of both. I think about—” 

Jon’s voice grows choked, and he stops abruptly, looking ashamed. 

“Tell me,” Martin urges. 

“I think about...what happened, last time. About how I—how I ruined things between us. But also…” He swallows, hard. “I can’t stop thinking about how it felt. The, the sounds you made, and the way you...I wish things had been different. That I could have treated you how you deserve to be treated.”

“Jon, that wasn’t  _ you...” _

“Is that what you really think?”

Jon’s gaze bores into him, and Martin is acutely aware of how hard he’s breathing. He can feel every place where they touch with an intensity that threatens to undo him. 

“You—you didn’t want that. It was the, the statement, and my feelings—I know you don’t... _ do  _ that.” The words come out in an awkward jumble, and he curses himself. 

“I wanted it,” Jon says quietly. “I wanted  _ you.  _ The statement may have—brought certain...urges to the forefront, as it were, but I—I’m still responsible for what happened. So if you’re holding back for some reason, don’t. I deserve anything you say or do to me.” 

Martin can scarcely breathe. The thoughts Jon is expressing are scattered, half-formed and confused, as if he doesn’t know himself what he wants. But Martin thinks he’s starting to get the picture. Jon came to Martin because he wants to stop thinking about his hunger. 

The only sensible thing to do right now is make sure Jon’s more or less okay, and then ask him to leave. Tomorrow he can get the tape to Basira, as he should have in the first place—as he  _ knew _ he should have. The others can take care of Jon, keep an eye on him. They’re better placed. Martin shouldn’t, he  _ can’t _ get involved, not with what he’s trying to do. It could ruin everything. 

But Jon is kneeling before him, and Martin Blackwood is a weak man. He knows it even as his fingers find Jon’s hair again, sifting through it, curving around the shape of his skull. Jon melts into the touch, and Martin takes in a deep breath. He has to  _ know _ what Jon wants, to be sure this is worth risking everything he’s worked for.

“Jon,” Martin says, solemnly. “I can give you what you want. You know that, don’t you?” 

Jon swallows, hard, and nods. His eyes are intent, drawing Martin into their dark depths. Martin breathes out, shakily, and continues. 

“And that’s why you came here.”

“It’s not—” Jon begins to protest, but Martin doesn’t let him. 

“It’s okay,” he says. You can have it, the—the Flesh attack. I didn’t tell you that the last time, did I? Not in detail.”

Jon doesn’t say anything, just looks raptly at him, his Adam’s apple bobbing hungrily in his throat. Martin shuts his eyes for a moment. 

“You can have it, but then...you have to go, and leave me alone for good. Understand? I won’t let you back in again.”

“Martin…”

“Or,” Martin insists, because he needs to get through this. “Or you can stay, and I can try to help you some other way. I don’t know how much I can help, but I’ll do my best. Those are your choices, Jon.”

Jon is staring at him with feverish intensity and Martin wants to squirm under his gaze. He can scarcely believe he’s offered himself up like this, practically  _ asked _ Jon to devour him all over again. But...he has to know, if there’s enough of Jon that  _ wants _ to stop. 

If there isn’t, he doesn’t know what he’ll do. 

“Please...Martin,” Jon breathes at last, his voice strained and desperate. “I need your help _ .”  _

He folds against Martin again, and Martin could cry with relief. Jon,  _ his _ Jon, of  _ course  _ he wouldn’t give up so easily. Martin strokes his hair as Jon’s face presses into his lap. 

“Is there...anything that will help?” he asks. “Other than just—just staying here. Which you’re welcome to do as long as you need! But...is there anything I can do? More tea, or, or, do you want me to put on some music, or a film or something?” 

Martin racks his brain for anything that might help, a diversion from Jon’s hunger. Jon makes a soft sound that takes his breath away, and looks up at him. His expression is a strange mix of shame and yearning. 

“Last time,” he says haltingly, “While we were...together. I, uh, I wasn’t thinking about anything else.” He stops, seeming to realize what he just said, and hides his face. “I have absolutely no right to—to  _ proposition _ you, I know, but…”

Martin can barely breathe. “Jon, are you—I don’t want you doing this because you think it’s what I want. That’s not why I’m helping you, you know that, right?”

“No—no!” Jon stutters. “I swear, that’s not—I want to. I think it might help. Be a—a distraction?”

The way he says it is so  _ Jon _ that Martin could laugh. Instead, he grasps Jon’s face in both hands and kisses him. Jon’s mouth is soft and yielding against his. He lets Martin part his lips and explore him slowly, carefully, making quiet little sounds that Martin relishes. He is flushed and heavy lidded when Martin pulls away from him. 

“Please, Martin,” Jon whispers. “I need you to take control. I need to, to stop thinking…”

Martin kisses him again, more gently this time. “Come to bed, Jon,” he says, and Jon gives a lovely little shiver, and nods. 

Martin guides Jon to his feet and into the bedroom. He tries to act confident despite the flutter of nerves inside him; Jon looks balanced on a knife edge, skittish and starving, and Martin doesn’t want to startle him. He has to be the calm one here. Jon  _ needs _ that. 

Control. That’s something Martin’s never had much experience with, but it feels  _ right  _ when he thinks of giving Jon orders, of guiding him to a place of serenity. He’s had a boyfriend or two with a submissive streak, and he enjoyed giving them what they needed, though it’s been years since he indulged. He casts his mind back, to try and recapture the mindset, to let the aura of dominance settle over him like a cloak. It feels good. 

He pauses at the foot of the bed, and grasps both of Jon’s hands in his, staring into his eyes, because he needs Jon to be  _ sure _ about this. 

“I’m going to help you, Jon,” Martin says. “You’re going to stop thinking, and just do what I tell you, and it’s going to be good for you. I’m going to make it good for you,” he continues, getting into the flow. 

“But if it gets to be too much— _ any  _ of it, not just the sex—then I need you to tell me. Alright?”

“Alright,” Jon promises. His thin frame is already shaking with anticipation, and Martin can’t help but lean in and kiss him again.

“I’m going to fuck you so well you won’t be  _ able _ to think about anything else,” he promises. “Do you want me to do that for you?”

“Yes,” Jon says, breathless, his lips parted. 

“Good,” says Martin, feeling bolder by the moment. “Take your clothes off.” 

Jon’s breath hitches as he moves to obey, his long fingers unfastening the buttons of his waistcoat. Once it’s off, he looks to Martin for guidance. 

“Over there.” Martin gestures to the chair that already has a pile of his laundry on it. He wishes he’d had a chance to tidy up a bit, but it’s too late to do anything now. 

Jon relaxes visibly, neatly folding the waistcoat on the chair before moving on to his crisp white shirt. There’s nothing seductive about his movements, but Martin can’t help but stare as Jon reveals inch after inch of pale skin. 

The last few years have not been kind to Jon. He’s thinner than he used to be, before the Unknowing, before Jane Prentiss, when Martin had just been nursing a harmless crush on his distant boss. His skin is marked with scars, from the pocked worm-marks to the pale line across his throat. Martin finds him unspeakably beautiful. There’s a lithe grace in the lines of his body, in his finely muscled arms and narrow waist.

“You’re doing so well,” Martin says, and Jon bites his lip, flushing prettily. Jon’s so easily overcome by praise. He stores the knowledge away for later use. 

Jon’s already half-hard by the time he gets to his pants. Martin can see the shape of him through the thin fabric. He recalls his earlier fantasy, and his mouth waters. Jon hesitates with his hands on the waistband before Martin nods in encouragement, and he pushes them down past his thighs before finally stepping out of them. 

“You’re so gorgeous,” Martin tells him, unable to stay away any longer; he takes Jon in his arms and kisses him again, exploring his body with both hands. Jon’s body is trembling, almost feverish in his arms, Jon moans into his mouth as Martin strokes his chest, his back, his hips, before finally wrapping his fingers around Jon’s cock. It twitches in his hand, hot and eager. 

“I want this in my mouth,” Martin whispers against Jon’s ear. “I want to suck you off, and then I want to eat you out. How does that sound?”

“M-martin—” Jon gasps, hips bucking against his hand. 

Martin decides to take that as agreement, and gives Jon a gentle push toward the bed. Jon goes easily, and sits down on the edge of the bed. He looks nervous and excited. 

“Lie back,” Martin orders, and Jon does, shifting back until he’s laid flat on the mattress. Martin goes to him, puts one knee on the mattress between Jon’s legs. Jon looks up at him, his eyes wide and dark.

“Aren’t you going to...take your clothes off?” His voice is breathy. Martin smiles at him, and rests his palms on Jon’s inner thighs, making him shiver. 

“In a little while. First I want to taste you.” 

Jon inhales sharply as Martin leans over him, and draws the head of Jon’s cock between his lips. It’s hot, the skin soft and fragile, tasting of musk. Martin’s fantasized about this so many times, and the reality is overwhelming. He sucks Jon deeper, hollowing his cheeks, and Jon whimpers. His hips buck up into Martin’s mouth, and Martin pulls off with a soft pop. 

“Lie still,” he orders. 

Jon nods tightly. “S-sorry.” 

“That’s okay,” says Martin, and draws Jon back into his mouth. Jon’s cock slides sweetly over his tongue, and the tiny sounds he makes as Martin sucks him are intoxicating, his hips twitching minutely as he tries to hold himself still, fingers curling into the mattress. Martin feels arousal pooling in his belly, slick heat growing between his thighs. God, he wants to fuck Jon so badly. 

“Martin…” Jon moans, “Martin, I’m going to—”

Martin releases his cock and sits back. Jon groans, his eyelids fluttering. His whole body is flushed and lovely. 

“You’re not going to come yet,” Martin tells him, firmly. “Not until I tell you that you can.”

“I—right…” Jon says hoarsely. “Okay.” 

Martin sits up and pulls his t-shirt off over his head; he’s glad not to be wearing a binder, because in his experience there’s no sexy way to wrestle your way out of one, and he couldn’t handle a repeat of his aching ribs from last time. Martin stands up to strip off his jeans and pants, and then climbs onto the bed beside Jon. Jon turns over to face him.

“Still okay?” Martin asks him, and Jon nods. 

“Yes,” he murmurs. Martin pulls Jon into his arms, kissing him deeply. Jon’s mouth opens under his, and his body presses close to Martin’s, his thin arms clutching Martin in return. His cock nudges up between Martin’s thighs, slides against Martin’s own stiff cock, presses against his slick folds. It would be so simple to pull Jon forward, into him, hot and hard and filling Martin so intimately. To let their bodies rock together sweetly, easily, pressing kisses to Jon’s hair and holding him close until they both reach completion. 

That’s not what this is about, though. Jon needs to stop thinking, he needs Martin to take control, and Martin is going to do that for him. He pushes Jon away, gently but firmly. 

“Turn over onto your front,” he instructs, “And tuck your knees under so I can see that beautiful arse.”

Jon flushes even darker, and turns over, stretching out with his arse thrusting up. Martin wonders if anyone’s ever called part of him beautiful before. Martin wants to call every part of him beautiful, wants to love him from head to toe, wrap him up and keep him safe from the world. An impossible dream, so Martin settles for palming his cheeks, spreading them to show the sweet pucker of his hole. 

“God, Jon,” he whispers, and presses his thumb against the tight muscle. Jon trembles and makes a low sound. Martin leans in and gives a delicate lick to his hole, and Jon whimpers. He’s so sensitive, so perfectly responsive, it drives Martin mad just listening to him. He rubs his stubbled cheek against Jon’s skin just to hear the quiet gasp it provokes. 

As he circles Jon’s hole, he wonders if anyone else has done this to Jon, or if he’s the first. It’s not important; Martin intends to be the only one who matters. It’s the kind of possessive thought that should horrify him, but it feels so good to imagine Jon as  _ his  _ while he’s shaking apart under Martin’s mouth, he doesn’t want to stop. His arousal is almost painful, throbbing between his legs, and he squeezes his thighs together, barely resisting the urge to grind against the mattress. 

“Martin,” Jon sighs, pushing his hips back against Martin’s face. He says it again, and again, helplessly, clenching tightly around Martin’s tongue. 

“You’re being so good for me,” Martin praises, pressing kisses to the tender skin. 

“Please, I need—” 

Martin nips gently at one cheek, and Jon breaks off with a started gasp. 

“I'm deciding what you need, remember?” 

“Y-yes,” Jon breathes, relaxing back against him. Martin keeps licking him, deep and wet, one hand resting on Jon's hip to ground him. Jon is letting out a constant stream of little gasps and moans, sounds so vulnerable that Martin aches. After a while he sits back to examine his handiwork, Jon with his face buried in the duvet, his hips thrust up like a plea, his hole shining with saliva. 

Martin shifts around him to get to the bedside cabinet, reaching for the drawer that he knows contains lube. Jon is watching him with soft, hazy eyes, his lips parted and panting quietly. His cock is curving beneath his belly, the tip slick with pre-come, pushing out of its foreskin. He looks like he can hardly think, and Martin intends to make it so he can't remember his own name.

Jon shivers when two slippery fingers probe at his hole, teasing the muscle. As Martin breaches him he moans, a long, low sound that drags out until the fingers are in him to the knuckle.

“Well done,” Martin murmurs, “Does it feel good?”

“A bit...strange,” Jon says, breathing hard. “But...yes, good.” Martin pulls his fingers out until they're barely inside Jon, and slides them slowly back in. This time Jon moans louder, and his hips buck up minutely. He keeps making the loveliest sounds as Martin’s fingers open him up, thrusting and stretching, and after a little while he's pushing back in earnest, fucking himself on Martin's fingers. It's the sexiest thing Martin's ever seen.

Jon whimpers with loss when Martin takes his fingers entirely away. Martin hates to deprive him, when he's panting and so lovely, but he doesn't want Jon to come quite yet. He drapes his weight over Jon's back and presses a kiss to the back of his neck, circling his hips against Jon's arse. He wonders if Jon can feel the slick heat of him from here, the way he wants Jon more than anything. 

“I'm going to fuck you,” he murmurs into Jon's ear. “And you’re going to forget about everything else, except how good I'm making you feel. Do you want that?”

“Please, Martin…” Jon breathes, just this side of a whine. He's trembling. Martin bites his earlobe gently.

“It's going to be okay, Jon,” he whispers, and he knows he can't make that promise for the world beyond this bedroom, but for right now he can mean it. “I'm going to take care of you.”

Dropping one last kiss between Jon’s shoulder blades, Martin bends to open the bottom drawer of his bedside stand. He deliberates for a moment before selecting his favorite toy: a rose pink cock with a lovely curve to it, and elegant ridges along the bottom. Thick enough to make a satisfying mouthful, but nothing too ambitious. He can always switch it out, if Jon needs something bigger. He thinks of Jon taking the thickest of his toys, and feels his breath catch. Maybe next time. If there is a next time.

It only takes him a few moments to step into the harness, adjusting the straps around his hips and thighs. The toy settles just over his cock, and he strokes it, savoring the pressure as it presses against him. When he looks over, Jon is staring at him with parted lips. 

“Open up,” Martin orders, brushing Jon’s hair out of his face. He guides Jon’s mouth onto him, watches the pink silicone shaft disappear between his lips, and moans. Jon’s gaze flickers up at him. 

“That’s it,” he encourages, stroking Jon’s scarred cheek. 

Jon’s eyes slide shut as he sucks, relaxing into his submission as if he were born to it. He pulls off to mouth at the shaft, sucking kisses along the bottom and sides. Heat flares in Martin’s belly, makes him pull Jon off him with a wet sound that goes straight to his cock. Jon shoots him a betrayed look that makes Martin lean down to kiss him. 

“On your back, please.” 

Comprehension flashes across Jon’s face, and his eyes widen. He hurries to roll onto his back, knees parted invitingly. His chest heaves with each breath. His cock is stiff against his belly, dripping steadily as he stares up at Martin. 

“God, you’re beautiful,” Martin breathes. 

Jon pulls him down by the hair, and Martin falls against him, their bodies pressed together from chest to thigh as they kiss. Martin pins Jon’s wrists overhead, feels his whole body relax as he squeezes firmly. He rewards him with a soft nip to his lower lip that makes him groan. 

_ I love you,  _ Martin thinks, but he can’t say that, so he kisses Jon instead, licking his way deeper into his mouth. Jon’s hips roll against his, impatient, and Martin gives his arse a light slap.To his surprise, Jon moans loudly.

“Behave yourself,” he warns. 

“S-sorry,” Jon pants, licking his lips, which are pink and swollen.

“Good boy,” Martin says, patting his cheek. 

Martin reaches down with his still-slick fingers, prodding Jon’s hole. Jon’s legs spread wider, encouraging him to slide in deeper, testing the tight muscle. Jon’s body clutches him greedily. 

“I think you’re ready,” Martin says, slipping a third finger inside. 

Jon groans and throws his head back. “Yes,  _ please—” _

“I’ve got you,” Martin promises, kissing him again. 

Martin quickly slicks his cock before lining himself up. He takes a moment to look down at Jon, who’s watching him with parted lips. Jon’s thighs are spread wide for him, bracketing his hips. Without taking his eyes off Jon, he slowly pushes in. 

Jon is incredibly tight, but he shows no signs of pain, moaning low in his throat as Martin slides in, one careful inch at a time. By the time Martin’s fully seated, Jon’s panting against his chest, hands clutching at his shoulders.

_ “M-martin,” _ Jon gasps helplessly. 

“Tell me what you want,” Martin orders, kissing his face, his jaw, his throat.

“K-keep going,” Jon pants. “I need more…”

Martin pulls back, drawing a low whine from Jon, before thrusting in deeper. He watches Jon’s face as he moves, unwilling to miss a single moment, a single flicker of expression as Jon takes him. It feels so natural, so right, to have Jon like this, spread out beneath him like an offering. Jon’s hips rise to meet his thrusts, his cock rubbing slick against Martin’s belly.

“You take it so well,” Martin moans, circling his hips against Jon’s. They move together as one, bodies writhing in time, as the tension builds between them, perfect and bright. Jon shivers around him, utterly lost in the sensation, and it isn’t long before he’s gasping out a warning.

“I— _ f-fuck, _ I’m going to—”

“Do it,” Martin whispers, reaching between them to stroke Jon’s cock. “Come for me.” 

It doesn’t take much—Jon’s been close since Martin got his mouth on him—and then he’s coming in Martin’s hand, on his belly, on his own chest. Martin fucks him through it gently, kissing him as he gasps and twitches, so beautifully sensitive. 

Jon pulls him down for a kiss, fingers tangling in his hair. Martin can feel his breathing grow calmer. 

“I—that was a bit abrupt,” Jon says, flushing pink. “Sorry.”

“I like that you’re so sensitive,” Martin says. “But what makes you think I’m done with you?”

Martin rolls his hips, making Jon gasp.

“I— _ oh!” _

As enjoyable as Jon’s reaction is, Martin isn’t a complete sadist; he pulls out slowly, savoring Jon’s low, overstimulated moan as he does. He undoes the harness, his fingers trembling a little with excitement, and kicks it off onto the bed, within easy reach. 

“I didn’t get to enjoy your clever mouth as much as I wanted, last time,” he says. Jon licks his lips, but doesn’t move from where Martin’s left him, still breathing hard. He’s so lovely like this, giving himself up to Martin’s care and guidance. Martin presses a hand between his own thighs, teasing his slit and fondling his cock with his fingers. Jon’s eyes are locked on where his hand is moving. He’s so aroused he could come just like this, with Jon watching him, bright eyed and hungry. But he wants so much more than that. 

“What do you want, Jon?” he asks, lightheaded with desire. “I want you to tell me.”

“I—I want to suck you...lick you,” Jon breathes softly. “After last time, I couldn’t stop thinking about—about what you taste like. You were so hot in my mouth, so wonderful, I want—”

He breaks off with a soft whimper, and Martin takes pity on him. He leans back where he’s kneeling on the bed, spreading his thighs invitingly. 

“Come here,” he says, and Jon doesn’t have to be told twice. He squirms around until he’s stretched out between Martin’s legs, on his belly. His hands slide up Martin’s inner thighs as far as his groin. Martin is throbbing with arousal, and when Jon’s lips brush over his cock he groans, pushing his hips forward. Jon’s fingers are on him then, rubbing over his swollen, aching folds, sliding easily into him, he’s so slick with desire. Jon is licking and sucking at his cock, rolling his tongue hungrily around it. 

Jon has three fingers deep inside him, clearly not an expert but so eager and tender that Martin melts for him. Jon’s fingers crook inside him and find his sweet spot, rub firmly against it and when Martin moans loudly he does it again, and again, until Martin is trembling and whimpering under his mouth and hands. Martin feels his arousal building helplessly, inevitably, his whole body tensed and shaking. Jon is making sweet little noises of pleasure as he works relentlessly with fingers and tongue, and Martin gives himself up to it, feels himself pitch past the point of no return, breath catching and thighs straining as he comes and comes against Jon’s eager mouth, his body clenching tight around Jon’s fingers. 

When Martin returns to himself, Jon is panting against his thigh, face glistening with come as he stares up at Martin, with a look of such awe that Martin can’t help but pull him up for a kiss. Jon’s erection brushes against his hip, and Jon whimpers, though to his credit, he doesn’t try to take more than he’s given. 

“I think we’ve found your true calling,” Martin teases, brushing Jon’s hair back from his face. His skin is damp with sweat, and he smells so much like Martin that he can feel himself growing even wetter. “You really like it, don’t you?”

Jon flushes pink at the praise. “I—yes,” he says, burying his face in Martin’s neck. “Y-you taste so good, and I like—making you feel good. I’d do anything if I thought you enjoyed it.” 

“What if I never let you come again?” Martin asks curiously.

To his surprise, Jon bites his lip hard, blushing even more deeply. “I—if that was what you wanted.”

“Is it the denial that gets to you?”

“N-no. Just the thought of you...making me. Deciding what I can or can’t do.” Jon’s breath is coming fast as he speaks. 

“You like giving up control?”

“Yes,” Jon confesses breathlessly, “I want to give it up to you.” His expression is mingled longing and humiliation, his eyes hazy with want. 

Martin pushes Jon onto his back, kissing him hard. Jon melts under him, lets him pin his hands by his sides as he rubs against Jon’s hip, spreading slick all over his skin, marking him with his scent. 

“Lucky for you, I like watching you come,” Martin murmurs. “But only when I say so, yeah?”

Jon’s arches beneath him, exposing his throat to Martin’s teeth, and he can’t resist a gentle nip, not when it makes Jon shudder so prettily. 

“P-please, Martin,” he says softly. 

Martin kisses his bitten lips. “I’ll tell you when,” he promises. He has to release Jon’s wrists briefly to rummage through the bedside table. Jon watches him open a condom, dark eyes fixed on his hands, and lets out a low whimper when Martin rolls it over his cock. He’s still looking at Martin when he straddles Jon’s hips, finally sinking down onto his cock in one smooth motion. Jon fills him perfectly, a lovely fullness that makes Martin moan deep in his throat. Beneath him, Jon trembles with the effort of holding still, letting Martin take what he wants without seeking more. “Good boy,” Martin says approvingly, and Jon glows at the praise. 

Martin’s sensitive so soon after coming, but he’s not in a mood for patience; he wants to fuck Jon senseless, until he can barely remember his own name. Every thrust spends sparks through him, makes him clench tighter and tighter, and he grips Jon’s wrists hard. Jon’s breathing is ragged, and the sounds from his throat grow increasingly desperate, until he’s nearly sobbing. 

“Martin, I can’t—”

“You will,” Martin tells him, and Jon swallows hard, visibly steeling himself. “You can touch me, if you like.” 

He releases his grip on Jon’s wrist, and Jon wastes no time wrapping deft fingers around Martin’s cock, stroking and squeezing, his movements eased by how incredibly  _ wet  _ Martin is, fluid smeared over their thighs and the place where their bodies meet. 

“Just like—f-fuck,  _ that—”  _ Martin groans, grinding down against Jon’s hand. “Don’t stop, don’t you dare stop—”

Jon’s eyes are wide and awed as he jerks Martin’s cock just the way he likes it, watching him come apart like it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to Jon, as if he can’t believe his luck at getting to see it. Martin’s release looms closer, closer, until he finally gasps out, _ “N-now, _ Jon—”

Martin finally gives in, lets the orgasm rip through his body as Jon thrusts up into him, fucking him through it until his cock jerks inside Martin and he comes with a low cry. Martin collapses against him, shivering as Jon’s cock slips out, and Jon’s arms grip him tightly. Martin deftly tugs the condom off him and discards it on the cabinet to be dealt with later, before sinking into Jon’s embrace. It’s a long time before either of them speaks. Instead they simply cling together, soaking in each other’s warmth as they recover. 

When Martin looks up, Jon’s face is wet with tears. 

“Jon! Are you—?”

Jon wipes his cheek with the back of one hand. “I’m—I’m fine. Just...overwhelmed, I suppose,” His voice is tinged with embarrassment. 

Martin’s chest swells with warmth. He leans up to kiss the rest of the tears from Jon’s face. 

“You’ve had to deal with a lot on your own, haven’t you?” 

Jon nods tightly, lips pressed together as more tears flow. Martin turns them so that Jon’s head is pillowed on his shoulder, and Jon clings to him as if he’s afraid Martin will disappear if their bodies aren’t pressed together closely enough, with his hand on Martin’s heard and one scrawny leg thrown over his thighs. Martin pulls the duvet up over them both, runs a gentle hand down Jon’s spine as he shudders through the tears. 

This time was too close. It’s clear that Jon can’t handle the hunger on his own—it was stupid of Martin to expect him to. But Martin can’t give up his position either, not when he’s in so deep with Peter. 

“Next time…” Martin begins, then stops and swallows hard. “Next time, come to me.”

Jon lifts his head from Martin’s chest, his eyes wide and wet. “Y-you’d let me—”

“I can’t risk losing you,” Martin says softly. 

“Martin…”

“I—I can’t come back to the Archives yet,” Martin clarifies. “Not with everything that’s going on. But...Peter isn’t Elias. He can’t see everything.”

Jon buries his face in Martin’s shoulder, sighing deeply. “I understand. And...thank you.” 

It’s a terrible plan. They’re almost certain to be caught, and the consequences won’t just fall to him and Jon, but to everyone they know. But Jon feels so small in his arms, his heart beating hummingbird fast against Martin’s chest. He needs to be cared for. He needs  _ Martin  _ to care for him. Even if Martin’s caring has never made a difference, it’s all he has to give Jon.

He’ll make it work. Somehow.

He has to.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to everyone who's read, commented, or left kudos so far! Your feedback give us life, and we adore you!
> 
> There is at least one more fic planned in this series, though we're not sure when it'll be out. We hope you enjoyed this one. <3


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